Tears of a Jester: The last words of Harley Quinn
by DrLecterQuinn
Summary: Harley Quinn has sent her final letter to the GPD as she prepares to take a deep leap into Gotham River. She confesses to her true origin and to who she really is.


Commissioner James Gordon,

This is my confession. I've given this a lot of thought, and I've come to the conclusion that I can't escape my fate anymore. It's time to lay all of my cards on the table, even the Jokers. By the time you read this, I will be at the bottom of the Gotham East River. I can't leave this earth without knowing that my story will be told, and that it will be told my way. My name is Harleen Francis Quinzel, but everyone knows me as Harley Quinn. I didn't used to be her you know, I wasn't always a clown, hell I wasn't even a butt of a joke once I filled out, but sometimes a girl's got to make a change. Let me tell you a little about myself. I was born in a ghetto outside of Gotham City and I had the typical Gotham City childhood. Mom was a disinterested alcoholic and Dad was a low-level con artist working for some two-bit operation outside Metropolis. I worked hard, y'know; I wanted to prove that a Quinzel was worth something in this crazy world. I busted my ass in school and ended up with a free ride to Gotham University. I put everything I had into my college career, and in turn Mom put even more cheap whiskey in her. I was grateful for the scholarship; otherwise I'd have never made it out of that house. On my 18th birthday, Dad ended up behind bars at Blackgate. I never saw him on the outside again. The papers said that he was implicated in a string of contract murders between Metropolis and Gotham City. My father was never a bright man, but he wasn't a killer. He'd rob you blind, steal candy from a baby and ravage a married woman, but he'd never stoop to murder. I guess that's another thing he and I never saw eye to eye on. The truth was, he was working for a bitch that went by the name of Fish Mooney, and she was behind all of those little two-bit operations in those days, but she always kept her claws clean. Everybody knew she was dirty, but no one had the balls to do anything about her. Any time someone would make a move against Mooney, her right hand stooge, Oswald Cobblepot (you should be pretty familiar with him by now) would make you sleep with the fishes…. not the Fish, just the fishes. Anyway, like I said, Dad wasn't the brightest bulb and he underestimated Mooney's influence. He stepped up against her after a drug bust went bad. Mooney saw an opportunity to unload all of those bodies in her ever-expanding closet on one, poor, loud-mouthed idiot. Before Dad could say anything against her, they slapped him in irons and off to Blackgate he went. There have been rumors in the Underworld that Mooney had had a relationship with my father, and that was the real reason he ended up where he did, but I don't pay much attention to gossip. I know the real story, and now so do you. Ok, back to me. I was doing pretty well for myself, in spite of all of the family drama, until one day I got called into an office. I was told that due to my association with a known felon, my scholarship funds were being frozen for the upcoming semester. I saw it all in front of me. I was going to end up like Mom, or even worse like Dad. I needed an education. I was smart and dammit, I was going to make a difference. I kept my head held high and started looking for a job opening. Now, of all of the stuff that I'm going to tell you here, this might be the most embarrassing. Everywhere I went, I was getting turned down left and right cause of my last name. People weren't going to hire the daughter of a convicted murderer, well everyone but one.

I don't know what drove me to this conclusion, or maybe I do, but I can't escape any what I've done. I went to Old Towne. I wasn't looking to start turning tricks, maybe just get a job at a club, but still "Quinzel" was holding me back at every turn. Then I met her. She grabbed me after yet another rejected audition. She was unlike anyone that I'd ever met. She was sex personified (still is) and she held herself like a Queen (still does). Mistress Selina (meow?). Long before her nights in a black, leather cat suit, she was spending her nights in…well, a black leather cat suit, but you get my point. She wasn't Catwoman just yet. She took me in and told me the hard truth, when you have nothing; sometimes you have to make sacrifices. I was in jeopardy of losing everything that I held dear, and the only option that seemed viable was working with Selina. She took me in, gave me a quick glance-over and off I went on the street. You feel two things when you prostitute yourself for the first time. First is shame/embarrassment/ apprehension…these are normal, expected feelings. The second was far more surprising…ambitious. You know what you're doing is wrong, but ultimately there isn't another option, and you want to be the best. So, there I stood out on the cold, Gotham streets in red and black tights, a leather mini-skirt and a mesh blouse. I was everything a good, little hooker could be. And I was popular. Holy shit! I was popular. I brought in customers left and right, and with each one I felt less and less concerned with what I was doing. Every dirty john I had to go down on was just another obstacle in my quest to reach my ultimate goal. All of that changed in a blink of an eye.

It was a normal night, snow was just starting to fall and the deadline to pay for my new classes was rapidly approaching. Hooking may be consistent, but it's far from lucrative in Old Towne. There are so many lovely ladies to choose from, that discounts have to be applied for the newbies. I was no exception. I took every job that came my way, and some were more enjoyable than others, but none were as bad as my last night. He pulled up in a black SUV and told me to get in. He made me feel comfortable, but I was immediately uneasy by his faux grin and cheap cologne. Every woman, hooker or not, knows when she's with a creep. I was with a creep. He took me to a sleazy motel and paid in cash. He drove me to a room that was hidden from the street and told me to go inside and change. I did as I was told. I walked into the filthy hotel room and slipped off my dress. I positioned myself on the bed and waited for him to come in.

After 15 minutes had passed, I walked to the door and looked outside. His car had disappeared and so had he. I pulled on the handle of the door, but I couldn't get it open. I was trapped and I didn't know why. I went back into the center of the room and pulled back on my clothes. As I dressed, I heard the sound of music coming from inside the bathroom. I froze in place. I had been lucky never to have to deal with a real psychopath at this point, but it was becoming quite clear that I was Janet Leigh and he was Norman Bates. I grabbed the antenna off of the old television set and pushed open the door to the bathroom. The smell of bleach and blood knocked me back. I could barely open my eyes out of desperation to believe what I had seen was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. It wasn't. I looked back up and stared in horror as five mangled, nude corpses glared blankly into me. Blood splattered the walls, the women in the bathtub, and everything around me. I turned around and was met face-to-face with horror himself. The man stood in front of me; the shine of his knife reflected the dim light of the hotel room. I tried to scream, but no sound came. He pushed me back into the bathroom and held my head against the bloodstained sink. I felt the bite of cold steel on the nape of my neck as he pushed the knife deeper into me. I felt his hand tighten against the back of my head, just as the sting of the blade disappeared. I closed my eyes. I couldn't fathom what he was going to do, and I was slowly coming to terms with my last moments on Earth. As I closed my eyes, I heard the faint sound of an unzipping zipper. He pressed something new against the small of my back and pushed my head further down. I winced as I felt him pull down my skirt, and then my underwear. I stood naked in that cold, horrific room as he pushed his disgusting self inside me. I allowed no sound to escape my lips, no matter how violently he thrusted or strongly he pushed. As he positioned himself, I noticed something interesting. His hands had been so focused on my body, that his weapon had been dropped and forgotten. I hatched a plan. I pressed myself against him and forced him in deeper. His hand tightened against my head, but he was far too distracted to pay me any real attention. Just as I felt his muscles tensing for his ill-gotten climax, I went for the knife. My hand slid against the handle of the weapon and in a swift motion I sliced into him. He had been in mid-thrust when I attacked, and I skillfully hit my target. He howled in pain and fell hard against the tile. Before I knew what I was doing, I was on him. I forced the knife into him so many times that I began to hear the sound of the blade hitting against the bathroom floor…. through his body. I sat back and stared at what I had done. I was covered in blood, partially his and partially the victims, but I was engulfed in red. I dropped the knife next to his desiccated corpse and walked out of the bathroom. The door to the motel room was unlocked and a suitcase full of torturous devices decorated the bedspread. I pushed my way out of the door and out into the parking lot. I walked from that shitty motel, all the way back to Selina. I told her what had happened, what I had done and that I was quitting. She pulled me into a hug and slipped a check into my waistband. She told me to leave and I did. With the check that Selina gave me, I was able to afford to cover the next few semesters until I graduated. Which I did, and with honors. The more I studied psychology, I became even more fascinated with people like Fish Mooney, my father, my attacker and everyone in between. What made these people turn to such horrible decisions, and this of course ultimately led me to Arkham Asylum. In more ways than one.

My time at Arkham was fine. Nothing too exciting to report, or groundbreaking to discuss. That is, until I met my destiny. I won't bore you with details of my sessions with my patients, but for one individual you need to understand why he meant so much to me. Allow me to say; once and for all, that I know the Joker is a cad. He's abusive, violent, unloving and rough…but none of that matters when you love someone as much as I loved him. I stopped deluding myself into believing that he could ever care for me, the way that I so deeply cared for him. No, I fully understood how terrible he was, and how "innocent" I was. I gave into his charm, that's well documented, but what isn't, was the catalyst. You see, when I found myself covered in the blood of that serial killer, I realized something about myself. I loved it. I fucking loved it! It was an adrenaline boost to take control of a situation that exceeds every limitation that you have. Mr. J was the living embodiment of that rush, and he offered me something that I could never repay him for. Fish Mooney. She was mine and she didn't even know it. The Joker offered me the chance to get revenge on the person I hated the most in the world. He was trying to show me devotion in his own, twisted way. I accepted. So, ignore all of the rumors of why I released him at first, I did it to get revenge on Mooney (and nothing else).

We caught up to her a few nights after the escape. She wasn't quite the influence that she had once been (muscled out by Oswald Cobblepot). Mr. J gave me the identity of his Harlequin to disguise myself if this went south. It didn't. Fish was nothing more than a has-been at that point, and her home exhibited nothing less. She never fought back…not even when I removed her intestines with a pair of scissors. She never screamed or begged for mercy, she accepted her fate, and in doing so brought me a sense of accomplishment. I decided in that moment, that I was never going to be anything other than the Harlequin. I was going to do what I wanted, to whom I wanted, and no one was going to stop me.

So, you see…things aren't always what they seem. Tomorrow morning, the papers will say "Joker's Girlfriend found dead in River," or speculation as to his involvement. He has no involvement. Not in this letter, not in this decision or even in my life. I am doing this, because contrary to popular belief, I understand what is happening. The noose is tightening and I want to get the jump. The age of the Clown has passed, and I'm left with nothing but Tears of a Jester. So, as I leave this plane of existence, I do so on my own terms and by own volition. My only hope is, in death, that I will gain some autonomy. I'm not the Joker's girlfriend; I'm Harleen Quinzel. But you can call me Harley, everyone does.

See you on the other side, Commish!

Harley Q.

XOXOXOXO


End file.
